


Perfect Submission

by kaiz



Series: Retraining of Lucifer [1]
Category: Brimstone
Genre: D/s, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-28
Updated: 1999-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezekiel and the Devil engage in a little power play, with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Submission

As I sucked his cock, I dimly wondered how I'd come to be here. Kneeling between his spread thighs. In this dingy, musty bedroom. Arms behind my back, properly crossed at the wrists and eyes carefully lowered. Uncomfortably compressed into this bag of decaying, mortal flesh.

I'd forgotten the tastes, the textures, the glorious sounds and scents of mortal passion. Forgotten the dark heat of arousal that roiled in my belly and slithered down my spine, tightening my balls, lengthening my cock. Was unprepared for the wild sensations that swept through this borrowed body: heart pounding, blood singing in my ears.

"Suck me," he had commanded.

Commanded *me*!

And I'd complied, powerless to resist, dropping to my knees in perfect submission.

How had he known?

*

"You should get out. Have some fun," he admonished, sandy hair bright in the slanting sunlight.

I laughed, annoyed and yet mildly intrigued. Curious to know what my pet detective, my pitiful blue-eyed slave might consider 'fun'. As if his innocent notions and my dark ones would ever coincide. Given a thousand years, Ezekiel Stone would still never be of hell, merely one of its less suitable tenants.

Later that evening, curious despite myself, I returned to continue the conversation. "Fun, Ezekiel? I don't have *time* for fun. Besides, I doubt you'd like my definition."

Eyes twinkling, he smiled. Shyly? Slyly? I couldn't tell. "You never know." His voice was low and smooth, like well-aged wine.

I'd seen that speculative gleam in his eye before. Caught his lazy, sidewise glances. Had seen compassion, unfeigned curiosity and interest.

I had never seen the expected loathing and fear.

And now, once again, I felt that strange internal heat. A warmth I'd grown accustomed to feeling in his presence. An echo of a greater, brighter flame, radiant and fierce, that I'd felt so long ago. Love. It's memory faded and tattered. My final vision of heaven before I'd been discarded, cast away for an eternity. Love. A flaming incandescence that imperiled my carefully cultivated icy detachment and holy rage.

He approached me, eyes serious, shadowed in the darkening bedroom. "Do you trust me?"

Trust? Ezekiel Stone was quite likely the only trustworthy soul in hell. "What?" I asked, wary, confused.

Slowly, he circled me, evaluating, his intense gaze nearly palpable on my skin. Unbidden, each nerve ending awakened, every sense thrummed with his nearness. Goose-flesh prickled my limbs, followed by an intense wash of heat along the length of my arm as he brushed past. Confusing sensory messages clamored for attention, a typhoon of sensations. I reeled inwardly, trying desperately to find the storm's calm eye.

"Ezekiel," I said sharply, forcing myself not to rub damp palms against tense thighs. "I don't have time for games."

He faced me, feet slightly apart, braced. So close I could feel his body heat, smell his clean human flesh, tinged with the slight acrid tang of hellfire.

"I asked, do you trust me?" he said again, placing a strong, callused hand against my chest. His voice was firm and compelling.

I thought to laugh, to wave his question away. But something in his expression, his touch, stopped me. Stopped the breath in unfamiliar lungs and set my heart pounding. Compelled me to answer honestly.

"Yes," my own voice was hoarse, cracked. "I trust you."

His gaze was level, direct. Serious. "One hour, then. That's all I ask."

One hour? What was this game he played with me? Didn't he realize that I'd played them all? Invented most of them? And didn't he know that 'you can't beat the Devil'? I'd certainly told him frequently enough.

"Ezekiel. Exactly what do you think you're --" He stopped my words with a touch, finger tips lightly brushing my lips. I shivered.

"Yes or no?" he asked simply, gently caressing my cheek with his thumb.

I stared at him, lips tingling, knees weak. Damn these traitorous human bodies! I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth wash through me. Felt the internal thaw that heralded my bitter defeat. When had it become desirable that I please him? He was *mine* damn him! Belonged to *me*, now! Body and soul. How had this hideous, vile, bittersweet moment come to pass?

When I reopened my eyes, I was struck by the gentleness of his smile. The tenderness, compassion that melted my rage and called forth ancient memories of love and security. Emotions I'd learned to distrust, which were so easy to counterfeit in hell. Yet, in Ezekiel, they vibrated with sincerity, ran clear and cool. Pure. Untainted by sin.

Mouth dry, tongue thick, I rasped, "Yes."

His strong hand slid along my cheek and into my hair, his smile soft. "Then trust me to give you what you need."

Breathlessly, I nodded, glancing at the clock. 11:18 PM.

His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling my head back sharply, and then his lips were upon mine. Plundering. Electrifying. Incendiary. Lush sounds, sharp tastes and scents assaulted my senses. His touch inflamed me, ignited my body and flayed my soul.

Hands stripped away my clothing, left me naked and shaking before him, infuriatingly needy. I reached for him then, but he clasped my wrists behind my back.

"No," he said firmly, grip tightening painfully. "I didn't give you permission to touch me."

I moaned in frustration, but obeyed.

"Spread your legs."

And I did, standing before him, hands crossed behind my back, shivering with anticipation and confusion. My head reeled and I lost track of time, awash in the sound of his voice, his powerful, commanding hands on my body, the sweet press of his lips against mine. It was so hard to think this way. To recognize this man as the same doomed soul who still pined for his mortal wife. Harder still to willingly recognize myself -- the ruthless, merciless ruler of hell -- in this trembling, willing slave who shamelessly begged for a pleased smile or a kind word. But then, of course, I'd forgotten. *I* hadn't invented *this* game at all -- *He* had.

A knowing hand stroked my leaking cock, while his casual voice bid me to suck the fingers of the other. His moist lips deftly captured and swallowed my pleasured moans as one hand slicked pre-ejaculate along my length. Then, his fingers breached me, slipped inside my tight anus, roughly stoking the simmering fire, acid that seared my veins. His voice burned my soul, "I know what you need."

My eyes slid shut and I surrendered to the feelings, his mastery, the pleasure offered by this sack of carrion, my weak, eternally damned human slave. Weak and yet subtle, flexible, powerful enough to erase my own millennia-old habits of domination and strength.

Abruptly, he pulled away and I staggered, panting, bereft. His smile was wicked. Still fully clothed, he turned. Sat on the end of the bed and unzipped his jeans.

"Suck me," he commanded.

And I complied, powerless to resist, dropping to my knees in perfect submission. How had he known I could be undone by love? Human love and compassion. A mere shadow of that greater love I still crave -- *His* love -- that haunts my waking dreams and torments me with longing.

He thrust roughly into my mouth, cock hard and heated, his scent overwhelming and his fingers painfully tight in my hair. And, with one sharp cry, his passion filled my mouth. I drank it down, moaning, arching towards my own traitorous release. Greedy. Desperate for words of love and praise. For that sweet, wry smile, the gleam in his eye that meant I'd pleased him.

He gripped the base of my cock roughly and I gasped. "I didn't give you permission to come," he said, eyes fierce.

My sight grew crimson with thwarted lust and my stomach roiled with rage and shame. My flawed human body trembled, my eyes stung and my heart contracted, a sudden stab from an impersonal blade. Loving him. Hating him. Desperate for release, but trained from birth -- by the ultimate Master -- far too well to object.

Full lips captured mine, once more, stealing my mortal breath. His slick tongue dove deep and I tasted the fiery tang of his semen and my blood, where his teeth had cut my lip. And then he withdrew, eyes again gentle, hand cupping my chin tenderly.

"Perhaps next time."

Furious, aching, consumed with unwilling longing, I glanced at the bedside clock -- 12:17 AM -- and, hating him, loving him, hating myself, I whimpered.

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> This series features domination, submission, discipline, and blasphemy. Each was written for 'First Line' challenges on the slashkink mailing list.
> 
> Thanks to Ashtareth and Aaboe (Panther) for the beta.


End file.
